Our Dear Warden
by InsecureLemon
Summary: People change. So do opinions. Find out what the Warden's various companions think about her as they travel Ferelden on their quest to defeat the Archdemon! Fem!Amell


**_A/N: _**_Taking a break from my Cullen x Amell story. This is a story from the different perspectives of the many companions of DA:O and their opinion on the Warden through-out the game. There are probably spoilers through-out the story, so be warned! Also, yes, the warden IS fem!Amell, with hints/allusions to Amell x Alistair.  
Style heavily inspired by _Crisium_'s stories (who is totally freaking awesome. You should go read her stories now. Now!)_._  


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**Our Dear Warden**  
Ch. 1: "Our Dear Templar"

_Okay, yes_, Alistair admits, shifting from one foot to another. _It was a stupid question, but you don't have to look at me like __**that**__._

"How, er… interesting."

She just crosses her arms and continues glaring. "If you have a problem with my magic, say so _now._"

It's too bad Templar training kind of skips over the whole 'first impression-social graces' sort of thing… epecially when dealing with mages. And, oh, wait a minute…. Hadn't Duncan said that he was going to the Circle of Magi to look for new recruits? Duncan who had just _returned_ from said Circle of Magi? With the new recruit? Who was a mage?

The realization dawns on Alistair like a rather painful blow to the gut.

Oh, _excellent._ First impressions indeed.

_- o -_

In all its berating of mages, the Chantry never _did _speak of healing magic much.

_How convenient._

But not as convenient as the fact that, after Ser Jory gets tackled by a pack of wolves, and Alistair's eyebrows are now singed off, they do in fact have a healer on their side. Even if she can't make his hair grow back instantaneously.

And even though her sense of direction is even worse than his and has no idea what to do when they start fighting and keeps getting distracted by the smallest things (_how_ many time have they stopped to look at flowers, now?), her magic is good and her spells are strong and Alistair is _glad_ that the mage is with them.

_- o -_

Alistair can feel his whole body relax, tight from a tension that he didn't even know he had.

_She's alive. _That's all he can think right now. _She's alive. She made it_.

Daveth and Ser Jory weren't so lucky.

And though she looks pale and sick and is _definitely _going to have a nasty bump on the back of her head the next morning, Alistair can't help but feel a relieved because, _thank the Maker, she __**made**__ it._

_- o -_

Her scream is almost as loud as the ogre's, or at least it seems that way to Alistair. But then again he _is _sitting right next to her. (He'd say 'hiding,' except that's not really applicable anymore, now that her shriek has given them away.) But Alistair doesn't have time to tell her to shut up, or even _glare_ at her, because the giant has turned its attention towards the two junior Wardens and is now lumbering as fast as it can towards them (which, Alistair notices thankfully, isn't that fast).

They spend the next twenty minutes or so running in circles, trying not to get kicked in the face.

The ogre is dead. They killed it. _They _killed it. They _killed _it.

When it fell, Alistair was almost certain the floor would break out from under them.

And Alistair would have liked to take a rest and catch his breath and maybe even marvel at the fact that, _dear Andraste, it's dead and __**we**__ killed it_, but there's no time to waste because they had wasted too much time already (well, okay, not really 'wasted,' so much as 'used up fighting darkspawn and trying not to die,') and he's _sure_ they missed the signal by now.

_x.X.x_

His world is falling apart. Alistair buries his face in his hands, ignoring the stab of pain to his ribs.

Wait, no. Correction: His world _fell _apart. It fell apart along with that stupid tower, and he wasn't even conscious to see it happen, never mind doing anything about it.

Because Duncan, the Grey Wardens, Maric, and, well, _everyone_ are…. are….

There is a queasy, acidic sort of feeling in his stomach. Everyone. Everyone except _her_, and he doesn't even know how long _that_ will last… if at all.

_- o -_

_She's alive_. Alistair just stares for a moment. He thinks maybe his mouth his hanging open, but he doesn't really care right now because, _thank the Maker, she's alive. _And though Alistair can tell she's having a trouble standing straight and her robes are still covered in blood and she's even paler than she looked after her Joining, it's all Alistair can do to stop himself from breaking down right there, in front of her and Morrigan and Morrigan's mother because, _Thank the holy Maker above, at least __**she's**__alive._


End file.
